In the Barrister's Chambers (8 page)

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Authors: Tina Gabrielle

BOOK: In the Barrister's Chambers
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Chapter 11
Evelyn watched Randolph and Simon leave the tavern. She was disheartened to see Randolph depart and knew it would be a long time before she saw him again. But at the same time, she was eager to delve into the list of suspects that Simon had handed her and prove Randolph's innocence.
“Don't worry, Evie. You'll see him again.”
Evelyn turned to find Jack watching her. She was struck by the firm set of his jaw, the intense green eyes.
She swallowed and nodded, unable to find her voice. How could she explain that she was more relieved that Jack had remained than she was upset that Randolph had returned to hiding? If Randolph stood any chance to return to his normal life, then Jack's services were essential.
Jack pushed his chair back. “We need to get you home.”
She stood and cleared her throat. “Yes, of course. If I am fortunate, no one in the household will have noticed my departure.”
She followed him to a rear door. He pushed the door open and they stepped into a narrow cobbled alley. Bypassing the main section of the fish market, Jack led her to where the same hackney driver that had brought them to Billingsgate waited.
Grasping her skirts, she climbed into the seat, and Jack sat across from her.
As the hackney started on their return journey, Jack lifted his sleeve to his nose and grimaced. “My valet is going to smell me coming.”
She laughed. “The smell is quite horrid and clings to everything.” Indeed, her “borrowed” clothing was destroyed by the slop and swill of the fish market, and she was thankful she had previously purchased her maid new clothing so those she was wearing might be disposed of without a pang of regret. Even her hat hung askew, damp from the humidity. She felt flushed and warm inside the coach, and she shrugged out of her wool cloak, which now lay wet and heavy against her skin.
Jack's gaze dropped to her chest, and Evelyn recalled the tight bodice. A sudden heat coursed through her, an awareness of his masculinity. The interior of the coach seemed to shrink as she focused on the attractive, virile man across from her.
Suddenly nervous, she pulled the coarse wool around her shoulders.
“I want to thank you for remaining as Randolph's barrister. I understand your predicament, your ethical duty not to lie to a Bow Street magistrate. But I am grateful that you did not insist Randolph return with us.” The truth was she was so relieved Jack had agreed to stay that it felt like a lead weight was lifted off her chest, and she could freely breathe for the first time that evening. “I'm prepared to immediately look into the list of suspects that Simon provided.”
“I don't think that's a good idea,” Jack drawled. “It could be dangerous, Evie.”
“But I could be of great assistance. As I said before, I recognized some of the names and—”
He held up a hand to interrupt. “I know better than to exclude you entirely. I suspect you would take matters into your own hands if I tried to stop you. I only ask that you do not look into any suspects by yourself and that you involve me in every step. We work together. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” she said quickly, lest he change his mind.
“Even if you have the opportunity to see Mr. Sheldon, I want to accompany you.”
Something in Jack's tone raised the hair on her nape. His eyes held a sheen of purpose and warning.
“You think Randolph is guilty, don't you?” she asked.
“It's possible.”
She shook her head. “No. You asked me to trust you. Do you trust my judgment, Jack?”
“It's not the same thing. Mr. Sheldon could be a gifted liar. I've seen it before. Some people are so talented that they begin to believe their own version of the story.”
“No, Jack. You have to believe me,” she insisted. “I don't agree with what Randolph did after he found Bess Whitfield's body. I think he should have stayed and explained himself to the constable. But I would not remain by Randolph's side if I believed him capable of murder.”
“I don't need to believe in my client's innocence to represent him,” he pointed out.
“Yes, I know that too. But I trust Randolph's story that he went to Bess's home that night at her request. She planned to give him something. Perhaps if we learn what that item is, you will believe him.”
Jack cocked his head to the side and gave her a grudging nod. The dying embers of the sun spilled through the open window of the cab, illuminating his extraordinary eyes, flecked and ringed with gold.
“My fellow barrister in chambers, Anthony Stevens, works with the best investigators in the business,” he said. “If there was something in Bess Whitfield's past that she wanted to hide, they'll find it.”
 
 
Jack strode into Gentleman Jackson's boxing salon at 13 Bond Street. Across the large salon, he spotted Anthony Stevens stripped to the waist in the center of a ring. Wearing padded gloves, he circled his opponent. The ring's heavy ropes were tied to four anchoring posts to form a square, and the boxers circled one another like scorpions with their tails raised, ready to strike.
The sparring pair rocked back and forth, their swift nimble footwork like rapid flashes across the hardwood floor. Both bent slightly at the waist, head and shoulders pressed forward, their gloves raised. They jabbed and punched as they moved, sweat running down their foreheads and onto their bare chests.
Anthony was tall, and his massive shoulder muscles bunched and flexed as he struck with each forceful punch. For such a large man, he moved with agility and grace in the ring. His opponent was as tall and powerfully built as Anthony, but one glance at the man's broken nose, missing front teeth, and purple bruising around one eye, pronounced him a seasoned boxer.
But Jack knew better than to underestimate Anthony's ruthlessly competitive nature.
To the side of the ring, resting his arm on the rope and shouting out instructions, stood John “Gentleman” Jackson himself. Before retiring, Jackson had defeated Daniel Mendoza to become the heavyweight champion in England. Since opening his own boxing salon, well-bred gentlemen flocked to Jackson for instruction in the pugilistic art.
Jack himself often sparred here, and he thrived on the physical exercise.
He watched the match from the far corner of the room. Near the end of the third round, Anthony surged forward and hit his opponent square in the gut, followed by a fierce uppercut to the jaw. Down and dazed, the other boxer lay flat on his back, and Anthony was declared the winner.
Jack waited to approach until Anthony stepped out of the ring, and an assistant untied his gloves.
“You fight like the devil, Anthony. By the experienced look of your opponent, I would have placed my bets against you,” Jack said.
Anthony laughed as he wiped his forehead with a cotton towel. “You never were good with wagers, Jack.”
Jack grinned. “I looked for you in chambers.”
“Nothing like a good boxing session to ease the stress of the day.”
“Ah, I see. An unpleasant encounter with a client?”
Anthony shrugged. “A particularly ornery fellow who is disgruntled with his spouse's spending habits.” Anthony reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head. The fabric clung to his sweat-slicked skin. “I had planned to return to chambers after I bathed. But truth be told, I expected you to seek me out sooner. What took you so long, Jack?”
“Let me guess; Devlin and Brent gave you an earful.”
“They told me about your latest female client. They warned me to expect you.”
Jack cursed beneath his breath. “Bloody hell! Those two magpies gossip like old hags.”
“I said the same thing, but there is truth to what they claim this time. Since when have you taken on beautiful women other than in your bed? I seem to recall you mentioning something about your trial concentration.”
“I told them. Evelyn Darlington is my former pupilmaster's daughter. I owe Lord Lyndale.” Indeed, Jack's youthful days at Lincoln's Inn touched upon a nerve. He had entered at his father's coaxing, and in little time he had found himself failing miserably and at risk of being thrown out of Lincoln's Inn. Without a willing pupilmaster to take him on, Jack would have had no choice but to leave and return to his father, head bent in shame. But Emmanuel Darlington, a revered Master of the Bench, had seen something in Jack and had quite simply been his savior. The man had been a phenomenal teacher, and he had ignited an appetite for learning in Jack—a near impossible feat at the time.
Anthony reached for a dented metal cup beside a water bucket, dipped it, and drank. Lowering the cup, he eyed Jack. “I assume both Devlin and Brent tried to talk some sense into you so I won't bother. What do you need from me?”
“The private investigator you work with. You once told me he was the best in the business.”
Anthony was quick to supply the information. “He's a shrewd Armenian by the name of Armen Papazian, and he excels at his job. But I assume my needs for information are different from what you require. I use Mr. Papazian to delve into an adversary's bedroom antics and secrets.”
Jack knew all about Anthony's unusual practices.
Anthony Stevens was an anomaly in their chambers. The truth was, Anthony was cut from a different cloth compared to every barrister Jack knew. Anthony had magically managed to obtain what so many of the married members of the
beau monde
fantasized about: the elusive divorce. Requiring an Act of Parliament, divorce was nearly impossible to obtain. Legal separation was more readily available, and even then the formal legal documents rarely were filed by the members of the
ton.
More commonplace and even expected was the fact that the husband and wife went on to live separate lives—some even on separate continents.
But Anthony had obtained divorces for three wealthy and respectable members of society, all titled men, all by proving the adultery of the wives. The fact that the men had kept mistresses throughout their marriages had been deemed irrelevant. The legal system, like society, favored men, and Anthony took complete advantage of that system.
Anthony's wealth and notoriety were well known, but he did pay a price for his chosen field. Seeing only the worst side of marriage, Anthony had become a jaded man who believed love an illusion pursued by weak fools.
Worse still, Anthony had developed a ruthless streak, a cutthroat manner that simmered beneath the surface of a respectable gentleman and barrister.
“Is it Evelyn Darlington's past you want searched?” Anthony asked.
“No. The victim's—the actress Bess Whitfield. She had numerous lovers and something to hide. Something worth killing for.” Jack reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a wrinkled paper, and handed it to Anthony. “This is a list of possible suspects and a place for Mr. Papazian to start investigating, although it is by no means complete.”
“Who gave you this?” Anthony asked.
“Randolph Sheldon. The man suspected by Bow Street of the crime.”
“Lady Evelyn's lover, I presume?”
Something about Anthony's statement irked Jack. “No. Mr. Sheldon is the man she is convinced she should marry, but he is not her lover,” Jack said, unable to withhold the critical tone in his voice.
A bright mockery invaded Anthony's hawklike stare. “Come now, Jack. You do not believe they are lovers? What woman would zealously defend a man accused of murder if not her husband or lover? In my experience, there is no such thing as an altruistic and selfless female.”
Except for Evie,
Jack thought. She was unlike any woman he had ever known. Whether her behavior was irrational or completely altruistic as Anthony suggested, one thing was certain: She and Randolph had never been intimate.
Jack felt it in his bones—knew it just as he knew how to breathe. His instinct had homed in on the platonic relationship between Evelyn and Randolph. She had looked upon Randolph with concern and compassion, certainly not the heated look she had given Jack after he had kissed her . . . after she had experienced her first spark of passion.
Anthony eyed Jack narrowly. “Damn it, Jack. Don't tell me you're turning into one of those weak fools who allows a woman to get under your skin?”
Jack bit back harsh words. “Of course not,” he snapped. “Just have your man look into Bess Whitfield's past.”
“What about Randolph Sheldon's past?”
Evelyn wouldn't approve. But if Randolph was hiding something, Jack wanted to know what it was. Jack nodded and said, “Yes, his too.”
A satisfied light came into Anthony's eyes, and he slapped Jack on the back. “Consider it done, Jack. Finding out people's secrets is the best part of my job.”
Chapter 12
After a night of fitful sleep, Evelyn woke late with the distinct odor of fish in her nostrils. Tossing back the covers, she immediately rang for Janet and ordered a bath.
Minutes later a brass tub and steaming buckets of water were delivered. As Evelyn lowered herself into the hot water, her thoughts drifted to last evening.
Thank goodness Jack had accompanied her to Billingsgate. She would have lost her nerve at the first glimpse of the crowded fish market, let alone the rough-and-tumble Cock and Bull Tavern.
Later, she had been fortunate to arrive home undetected. The first thing she had done was strip off her dress, tie it in a bundle, and toss it out the window. She planned on properly disposing of the ruined garment later today.
Resting her head against the rim of the tub, she let out a sigh. What was Randolph thinking to meet her at the Cock and Bull?
But the moment the thought crossed her mind, she felt a twist of guilt in her gut.
Randolph had been right. It was a safe choice for him. No one had recognized him or had questioned his presence. He had blended in with the sailors, fishermen, and fishmongers in a sea of anonymous, faceless bodies whose only intent was to drown themselves in ale and gin after a long workweek.
Evelyn rose from the bath and dried herself off with a thick, cotton towel. Donning a morning dress of soft blue alpaca, she hurried down the staircase, intent on meeting her father in the dining room for nuncheon.
Her foot had just touched the vestibule when a knock on the front door sounded. Looking about, she didn't see Hodges and knew the chances of the elder butler hearing the door knocker were slim.
Striding to the door, she opened it, expecting to see an acquaintance of her father.
Jack Harding stood on the front steps instead.
“Good morning, Evie.”
“Jack! What are you doing here?”
His chestnut hair was ruffled by a breeze in the doorway, and the shifting emerald lights of his eyes in the bright morning sunlight made her breath catch.
“I'm to meet your father for nuncheon. He sent a message to my home last evening inviting me.”
“He did?” she asked incredulously. “He never mentioned it to me.”
“Perhaps he truly believed you were ill and did not seek to disturb you. May I come inside?”
She started, realizing that she stood stock-still staring at him. “Yes, of course.” Stepping back, she motioned for him to enter.
Jack strode inside and closed the door. “Will you be joining us?”
At the eagerness in his voice, she experienced a rush of pleasure. “I was on my way to meet Father.”
She led the way to the dining room, all the while acutely conscious of his large, well-muscled body beside hers. She stole a sideways glance, noting how striking he looked in his finely tailored clothes and gleaming Hessians. She thought of the mended corduroy jacket and greasy shirt of last evening, and her lips curved in a smile.
Her amusement waned, turning to irritation, as she recalled how attractive he looked then too.
“Good morning, Mr. Harding,” Lord Lyndale said, rising from his seat as they entered the room.
“Please call me Jack, my lord. There was never formality between us at Lincoln's Inn.”
“That was before you became a barrister. But I am more comfortable calling you Jack. Please call me Emmanuel.”
“Not Lyndale?” Jack asked, using the man's title.
“Not with you. I was Emmanuel Darlington for many years before my brother died, leaving me the title. I consider myself a teacher and barrister first, and I'm not much for the snobbish ways of the nobility.”
Evelyn smiled, immensely proud of her father. He had refused to give up his position at Oxford, even after inheriting her uncle's earldom. He was a rare type of man, a true scholar at heart, dedicated to his pupils.
Jack and Evelyn sat, and Mrs. Smith entered and set plates of cold roast beef and rolls before them.
“Have you met with Randolph Sheldon yet?” Lyndale asked.
A shiver of apprehension ran down Evelyn's spine. Her father didn't know Randolph was in hiding at Bess Whitfield's home in Shoreditch, and he was completely ignorant of their escapade in Billingsgate. As far as Evelyn knew, her father believed Randolph was taking a brief sabbatical from the university until the business of Bess Whitfield's murder was resolved, and Randolph had sufficient time to mourn the loss of his cousin.
Evelyn bit her lip and looked to Jack, fearful of what he would reveal. Her hands twisted the napkin in her lap, this way and that, in anticipation of his response.
“I have met with Mr. Sheldon,” Jack said, “and I am looking into the best defense, as well as any alibis, should Bow Street decide to question Mr. Sheldon or seek his arrest.”
Evelyn held her breath until her father nodded his head in approval. Exhaling in relief, she made a show of taking a bite of roast beef. Jack had managed to inform her father without telling him the most damning facts and had successfully hedged the truth without lying.
What an incredibly talented lawyer you are, Jack Harding,
she mused.
“Truth be told,” Lyndale said, “I am relieved you are on Randolph's side. Case law is full of tragedies in which men have been sentenced to death for lesser offenses, many of whom were probably innocent but without the means to pay for legal representation. I myself vividly recall a client who paid with his life. As a longtime criminal barrister yourself, I am sure you have experienced such injustices firsthand.”
Jack's eyes darkened to a deep jade, and Evelyn knew he was recalling a memory. “I'm only too aware. Successful in the courtroom as I have been, I have lost trials and have been present at the execution of more than one client. Not all have been guilty of the alleged crime.”
A tangible tremor passed across the table between Jack and Lyndale. Evelyn sensed their angst and shared bond of having witnessed the death of an innocent man, unable to prevent the deed.
A renewed urgency rushed through her veins, making her light-headed. Randolph, too, could be an innocent man sent to prison—or worse—to the gallows.
Images flashed through her mind. Randolph with his fair hair and kind blue eyes as he listened to her theories on William Blackstone's works. All she ever wanted was a man who would look past her appearance and seriously consider her intelligence. And Randolph seemed to be perfect. He never minded her opinions, and he had even sought her help with research for his papers. That he never named her on his work or gave her credit for her research she knew was not his fault, but that of the male-dominated university.
And now, after years of searching for an intellectually suitable partner, there was a risk that Randolph could pay with his life for a crime he did not commit.
“Please keep me informed of your progress, Jack,” Lyndale said.
“I have hired an investigator to assist with the investigation,” Jack said.
Evelyn started, and her gaze snapped to Jack. He had wasted no time in seeking out professional assistance.
“Very well,” Lyndale said, rising from his chair. “Before I forget, Evelyn and I host a monthly dinner with Lordships Bathwell and Barnes, and I will be extending an invitation for you to join us.”
Jack stood and nodded. “I'd like that very much.”
Lyndale glanced from Evelyn to Jack, and a keen look came into his eyes. “I'll leave you two to discuss the case.” Then he turned and left the room, leaving them alone.
Jack sat and returned his napkin to his lap.
“You hired an investigator that swiftly?” she asked.
“My colleague, Anthony Stevens, works with a talented investigator with the instincts of a bloodhound; he arranged the matter. If Bess Whitfield was attempting to hide something, this fellow will learn the truth.”
Jack rested his elbow on the table and leaned forward. “There's another reason I came here today, Evie. An opportunity has arisen.”
“What opportunity?”
“It's Saturday.”
“I don't follow, Jack.”
“Tonight is Saturday evening, Evie. The busiest night of the week for the theaters.”
“The theaters?”
“I thought we could start by questioning Bess Whitfield's personal dresser.”
“Is the dresser on the list of suspects Simon gave us?”
“No. But I've learned that servants and the hired help should never be overlooked. Oftentimes they are the most knowledgeable.”
“Are you suggesting I accompany you unchaperoned to the theater tonight?”
“Bring your maid if you must, but you may want to leave her in the carriage. We'll be going in the back door uninvited.”

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